


Beastly

by reeyachan



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Chrollo x reader - Freeform, F/M, NSFW, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28049949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeyachan/pseuds/reeyachan
Summary: Your fingers twitch at the feel of the deadly aura surrounding you, but you remain unperturbed, vigilant yet lenient. You’re not here to make friends, but you’re not here to fight either. Fifty feet apart, you keep your gaze locked onto his, candlelight flickering on his grim stare. You wait for a jolt, or tremor, a word, his voice— “I heard your spider legs are incomplete. I’m here to fill the spot.”
Relationships: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44





	Beastly

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first proper NSFW and canon character x reader fic. Please be nice to me.  
> (Also, I don't know which rating this falls under so I rated it E just to be safe.)
> 
> This was requested by @/trash-writings at Tumblr for my ungodly 300 followers event. Genres are spicy and angst. I capitalized on the spicy to find out if I could write NSFW content. So here we are. :>

You stand between the cold concrete frame of the opening to their hideout as though you are standing atop the highest mountain in Padokea, or on-stage at Heaven’s Arena in front of ten thousand murderers lusting for your soul. The thrill of it is distressing, terror flowing rapidly in your bloodstream and penetrating your bones, yet it’s also exhilarating, rousing. You’ve never felt this confident before. You’ve never stood with a straight back and an impassive face before _him_ in the past.

The past—oh, how you cherish and loathe it, how the memories from it remain to warm you inside, but freeze you with ice shards multiplying and poking the valves of your heart. Yet, you thrive in it, you dance with your pain, you glorify your suffering. This is the most viable way to live in the abyss he left you in six years ago. This is your campfire in the lone, dark forest that was once your Garden of Eden.

“Who are you?”

_The past is now irrelevant. You and I never happened. What we had never existed. You do not affect me anymore. Not anymore. I won’t let you._

“Boss, your call. We’re ready anytime.”

Your fingers twitch at the feel of the deadly aura surrounding you, but you remain unperturbed, vigilant yet lenient. You’re not here to make friends, but you’re not here to fight either. Fifty feet apart, you keep your gaze locked onto his, candlelight flickering on his grim stare. You wait for a jolt, or tremor, a word, his voice— “I heard your spider legs are incomplete. I’m here to fill the spot.”

You hear a heel turn against the cracked tile from behind you. A cautious step, and another, then an inhale. “Who are you and how did you find this place?” A man; his hand assertively reaching for your shoulder.

You glide to the right to avoid it, adrenaline almost fogging your rationale for a strike. _Keep calm. You have to keep calm. Remember your training._ These people are not what you came here for. _He_ is not what you came here for. You glance to your left to investigate the appearance of this person. _Tall, blonde hair, tough build._ You almost chortle. “I tracked you down.” But you could showcase a little mischief maybe, or a bluff. “You’re quite easy to trail. I didn’t even break a sweat.”

His Nen spikes as he growles at the back of your head. “Why, you--!”

“Phinks.”

All heads turn to the broken windows--to the man with sleek raven hair and coat made of fur and murk. The moon illuminates his pale skin as he stands tall on the crest of the hill of debris, wind howling eerily as his eyes pierce your own.

A tang. Familiar, but not enough. You’re stronger now, yet waves crash against the shoreline of your lungs, filling it up with salt water—or is it disgust? You despise him so much it makes your guts churn. _Filthy man. Heartless, soulless Chrollo._ Once upon a time, you wished nothing more but a good life for him, but now, you want him dead and gone—from this land and from your head; from your hands.

“She’s trespassing!” Phinks yelps, pointing a sharp finger at you.

You clench your fists to keep it from swatting his hand off, inhaling a good amount of air to relax your nerves. None of these people should affect your resolve. None of them should deserve any of the fire you still possess. _Ice cold. Remember your training._ You face Phinks and get a good view of your company, your lips curving into a sinister smile. _This bunch is pathetic._

“No, Phinks, you let her in by being an easy target.”

There he is again, and you notice how his voice got closer, deeper than when you last heard him speak a sentence. As you turn to meet his gaze once more—c _loser_ —your mind wanders through the supercut of him with you, around you, on top of you, tainted memories clearing up, forgotten passion coming back. You have to look away, avoid his illusion. If you weren’t worth his time, then he isn’t worth your stare.

You hear Phinks surrender with a huff, and you take a step back from their bubble. But the soles of your feet grazing the floor catches their attention. You lift your eyes and give each a menacing glare, glower fixating last on the pair of midnight orbs that seem to have been waiting for yours. You raise an eyebrow and he looks away, giving the exit his full attention.

"You said you're here to fill the spot," he asks, and you know he is addressing you, lump in your throat forming as you inhale.

"Yes," you answer, without qualm, without hesitation.

And he says, without wasting a second, glancing at your direction as though he is speaking to your shadow, convincing it, "Come with me," before moving forward and into the darkness.

You hate him; you hate his swaggering tone and smug air, you hate his overbearing leadership and counterfeit righteousness. Yet you follow him. You trail behind him along the obscure hallway, unsure of the destination, unaware of what awaits. No, you do not trust this man. But he has something you want, and you’re not going to trade the golden opportunity of securing that with prejudice.

He stops, and so do you.

For a moment, the stillness in the hallway makes you breathless. You inhale and exhale slowly, controlling how this space suffocates your lungs, never letting your guard down even for a second. This could be a trap, or your gravesite. Ever so slightly, carefully, you allow your Nen to spike up—partly because you want him to feel that you’re not afraid, that you’re ready to fight at any given time. He turns, and you create a shield with your arms, searching his face for signs of bloodlust, or of the devil himself.

“Why are you here?”

Your brows meet at the center of your forehead while you trace the lines in the dark. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” you sputter in a somber mutter, exuding solemnity of the risks you’re taking. As the seconds tick longer, the air grows thicker and his gaze burns deeper. He steps forward and you step back. Distance is essential.

“No,” he states in a featherlight whisper, the kind that makes you remember lazy Sunday mornings, of comforting fingers running through your hair, the faint smell of soap and toothpaste and dawn filling your soul, of forehead kisses and cotton-soft embraces. And it terrifies you, desiccates your bones, melts your reasoning. He steps forward and you take a step back, legs itching to run away—far, far away from that place, from what is left of him in your heart. “Joining the Troupe could be dangerous. You might die.”

You exhale silently out of relief. His domineering words and obvious distrust immediately switch you back on track, eyes releasing daggers with your livid gaze. “I do not fear death,” you scowl between gritted teeth, struggling to keep your calm, to keep that beast jailed in your core, fed with madness and heartache. “I fear only that my rage will fade—”

Your breath hitches in your throat as you feel his lips against yours--gentle, delicate, like fingertips tiptoeing on baby’s skin. For a moment you feel your body collapsing against his, bedazzled by his charm and poisoned by his kiss. But your mind remains alert and evasive, arms quick to shove him off of you and Nenless hand eager to slap his face with it.

Your dumbstruck stare outlines the figure that stands over a meter away from you, observing how he strokes the skin your palm landed onto, meeting the eyes that were once only yours to beheld. They spoke to you as they penetrate your gaze, as soft and tender and intense as your memories of him were, and without a second thought, senses and reasons gone, you dash towards him to rekindle the fire, bodies crashing against each other and not pulling away.

Tainted pictures of him behind your eyelids suddenly disappear, and you think of nothing but the touch of his hands on your waist and the feel of his tongue inside your mouth, hot and wet—like how you remember it, like how he always tasted.

You feel the pressure of his lips and his body against yours, pushing you backwards. And you obey, stepping on your heels until your back slams against the wall and you feel his hands sliding under and up your shirt, fingertips crawling through the sensitive parts of your skin. You flinch, moaning as he smothers and gropes over and over.

 _Stop, please,_ you chant inside your head as you crave for more, tracing every curve of his neck and strand of his hair with your hands—body desperate to make up for lost time and broken promises, mind a blur.

His hips press against yours as he inserts his fingers one by one inside your bra, searching for your pleasure underneath it, stroking lightly when he did. You squirm under his command and feel his hard member grazing your left thigh, pressing longer and deeper as he strokes faster and fuller. _No_ , you inwardly cry as you thrust forward. You don’t need this. You don’t want this. What you want is to be accepted as a member of the Phantom Troupe and exact your purpose for something more meaningful. Chrollo is not part of that. He doesn’t deserve the attention he ignored all these years. But your body betrays your reasoning; how she missed his smell and his warmth inside of you.

On impulse, you pull your arms in to grab his crotch, satisfaction washing over you when you hear him grunt as you nip, slow and sure, firm and whole. He bites your lower lip while he mush on your hand, until you feel his fingers between your thighs, rubbing your wet clit lightly, savory, aiming to enter your opening. And you let him. You let go of control the second he inserts a finger, and another, and another.

He stops when you begin to shake. Your head falls back and he whispers in your ear, “You want it.”

You don’t know what he meant. But at that point, you know you only want _him_ —all of him. You respond with a nod and a slight moan and allow the next seconds to take your breath away. Chrollo grabs your shoulders and spins you around, your arms act as springs for your chest and your right cheek as they press against the wall.

You know where this leads. You’re aware of how he pulls your panties down and kisses your pussy with his tongue; you could feel him slap your asskcheeks and hear him unbuckle his pants. You hold your breath as his head slither against your labia, pre-cum trickling down your legs urges your hips to thrust backwards to invite him in.

It feels as though your body does not belong to you anymore the moment he enters you, losing your mind and your soul as he rams his hard shaft against your wet cunt, faster and deeper and heavier, forcing his way back in, easily marking the territory you worked so hard to barricade.

The pain is seething in your pelvis, but you don’t want him to stop. No, not yet. You want more of this. You want more of him. He thrusts forward faster as you begin to shiver, orgasm building up in your groin and nearing its release, spine arching backward as you moan loud of absolute and adulterated pleasure. He keeps his member inside of you while he waits for you to finish, your body shaking as the aftermath of his fuck electrifies and petrifies your entire being. He pulls out and you find yourself collapsing on the floor, breathless and brainless, clothes damp of sweat, exposed cunt drenched with a mix of saliva and your own cum. You lift your head to search his face, blurry eyes blinking as he towers over you.

This is where you begin to regret, and where you decide to sell yourself to him. Maybe, just maybe he would do it again if you stay, obey and bark like a dog. _Pathetic_ , but you know you already are. 

He smiles—grim, hostile, a madman, the devil himself. “You pass.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm nervous about publishing this but... Ty for reading!


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